


new york, the city slumping from weight of dreams

by superkawaiifreak



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25781074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superkawaiifreak/pseuds/superkawaiifreak
Summary: Axel, the gay blues guitarist, is set to move to Astoria. But first, he must apologize to the is-he-or-isn't-he straight kid, Roxas, for running over his cat. Axel/Roxas, AU, oneshot. Akuroku Month 2020.
Relationships: Akuroku, Axel/Roxas, akuroku month 2020 - Relationship
Kudos: 6
Collections: Akuroku Week 2020





	new york, the city slumping from weight of dreams

_[nyc, the city slumping from the weight of dreams.]_

* * *

His mind, his very consciousness, had been a series of disorienting still-life images, and by the time he turned twenty, because he had ignored the details imparted unto him by high school counselors -- had never made that damn five-year plan -- he looked back on his life with remorse, realizing how all along it had become trash, holy trash.

The constant demands that he just move to New York already -- all bramble to his untouched interior -- weakened him considerably. It would not happen -- not yet, he decided -- until he told that kid from the end of the street that he had been the one to run over his cat. It had been an accident, of course. Axel was no murderer of the living. 

He lifts his face to the warped mirror, cold water soothing his inflamed skin and dripping back on the sink, and can’t help but notice the broken capillaries of his left eye. A fading yellow-green the color of vomit can be seen under his left zygomatic arch. He blots his face with the remains of toilet paper stuck to the roll. In the middle of moving all of his shit into the old pickup, he had walked straight into the gangly hanging plants Saix had strung a few days prior. Larxene didn’t say anything about the mark on Axel’s face, ostensibly used to the checkerboard patterns of his skin, and as they drove down his street, passing the neighborhood homes he had known since childhood, the only words she had uttered were quiet -- and steady.

“What a relief.”

New York had been on Axel’s mind for five years. Knowing from a young age he didn’t want to go to college, he had started working in a local eatery called MonoMania, a Japanese-Indonesian fusion place specializing in handmade noodle dishes. The money far exceeded his dreams, as any teenager would marvel at five-hundred dollars made in a weekend. He bought all sorts of things then: artisan clocks, doughnuts, purple salt lamps, Eucalyptus bedding, weed, a guitar -- and a bass, then a Strativarius, then a Les Paul, and finally a Fender.

It became him, the guitar, and he had never known a love quite like that one. 

On particularly rough nights, he’d plug that baby-blue electric into the amp and practice seventh chords. It was usually the best way to drown out the noise. On the nights in which those addicting, tinny sounds failed to sate him, he’d swing open the flimsy bedroom door and bellow out to his parents to shut the fuck up, swipe a twenty from the kitchen cabinet, and skateboard to Saix’s house. 

The moist air against the black sky would envelop him in a warm cocoon, the thin material of his hoodie the only barrier between him and the natural world.

By the time he turned eighteen, though, he had had enough of the yelling and the fights, and moved across the city to Saix’s house, a modest two-bedroom in the center of uptown with French doors and a sparkling blue swimming pool. The type of relationship he shared with Saix was what one would expect -- safe, easy, predictably tepid. 

Axel had no idea when their relationship spoiled, but it did, and it ended with him being pushed into the refrigerator and an empty glass vase falling onto his head, presumably from above. Larxene, Axel’s first person on speed dial, arrived fifteen minutes after the altercation. Saix very briefly held his hands out to Axel, an act of reconciliation, but when Axel paused a moment too long, Saix stammered and locked himself in the master bedroom without another word. 

Sitting on the curb, Axel whistled nonchalantly as he gazed around the street, intermittently wondering if the cars driving by were Larxene.

It was when he picked up his last box from Saix’s place -- nighttime -- that he heard that horrible thud. The cat died immediately. Its skull had been crushed by the sheer weight of the tire, the white bone shards dotted with pink and red brain matter. Horrified, Axel panicked and scooted the dead thing into a nearby bush -- with his foot, no less -- and gunned it out of there, ashamed beyond words.

There was a trending hashtag in his area: #RIPMARY, and in the three seconds his thumb hovered over the tag, a cold chill wrapped around his throat. After scrolling past the fifth image of the mangled cat, Axel bolted to the sink and dry-heaved into the sink. His intestines pulled at his liver, his pancreas. Hot tears streamed down his sweaty face. He would stay away from that street for the rest of his life.

-0-

Larxene had a friend who worked at the Whitney who knew a big producer at Sony who was interested in the type of pseudo-blues Axel performed to obsessive, raving crowds across Atlanta’s gay community. Those were the nights he lived for, Axel, covered in magenta-stained leather and curled boots, plucking the guitar and spellbinding audiences. He was nicknamed The Kid because he wasn’t of age to drink yet. But he was certainly old enough to die in war, they’d always holler at him. Sometimes they’d tip him in twenties. On Friday nights during winter, he’d even go home with a handful of crisp fifties.

New York was the obvious choice for someone like Axel, an openly gay blues musician who preferred sneaking joints to beers. The scene up north would behoove him, Larxene would tell him.

But the story of Mary and how she died, her little skull splintering into a million pieces -- she deserved a soft epilogue, yet Axel had done to her the indignity of pushing her deadened body into the grass. 

He thought of the cat often, and always on-stage. He thought of the cat owner more.

It was Roxas Tripp because it would always be Roxas Tripp, and Axel couldn’t stand the guy -- the broody but somehow cheerful type that always managed to get perfect grades, date perfect girls, and buy expensive reds. Roxas’s hair shone in the light like gold and his awful teeth sparkled under the warm sun, it too begging to witness his loud beauty. He went to the state’s honor college and was entering his junior year of college after having finished up a remote internship for NerdWallet, a website dedicated to teaching Millennials financial literacy -- Axel’d usually take a break at this point of the night, his armpit sweat forming rivulets, unable to continue thinking about Roxas Tripp’s idiotic hair or his dead-fucking-cat for another goddamn second.

“I got a special one tonight, Dem,” Axel smirks at the bartender as he brings the shot glass to his lips, “betcha don’t know it.”

“If it’s special, I probably don’t. Is it a cover?” Demyx hands Axel a lime wedge.

“Nah, not a cover. Come on, man, I don’t do that shit.”

“Alright, dipshit, I asked ‘cause you said you bet I don’t know it. If it’s an original,” Demyx rolls his eyes, “of course I don’t know it. Real genius, you, Ax.”

“Whatever. Thanks for that,” Axel points to the empty glass, “I’ll call you after this. Seeya later.”

-0-

It’s August and he’s supposed to be in New York by now, but he had chickened out of confronting Roxas about the cat eight times in a row. Larxene, ever-the-gracious, told him that if he didn’t do it soon, two weeks would pass, then a month, then two months. Axel swatted her away -- he knew, he knew -- and he wouldn’t give up on his dreams so easily.

He takes two hours in the bathroom before driving over to Roxas Tripp’s place, not knowing if he should even bother to do his hair, or if Roxas would even be home. All these years of knowing each other yet never speaking -- it came as a shock to him.

Roxas laughs. “You what?”

“I killed your cat.” Axel grinds his teeth together. “I hit it with my car and panicked. I left and never owned up to it. I’m really sorry.”

“Mary was killed. By you. Right? That’s what you’re saying?” 

Axel nods. His face is red. “I’m -- I’m sorry.”

Roxas’s sigh slips into a quiet sniffle, and Axel is shocked to see languorous tears sliding down Roxas’s cheeks. “Oh, Mary,” Roxas exclaims, rubbing his eyes, “you poor thing.”

“Roxas, I’m so sorry. I know we don’t know each other, but if there’s anything I can do, please let--”

“You know what, there is,” his voice lowers an octave, “you can help me move my shit into the U-haul tomorrow. I’m moving to Queens tomorrow and my brother, who was supposed to move with me, bailed. Fucking Sora,” he shakes his head, “so you. You can help me -- Axel, right?”

“Uh,” Axel’s mouth goes dry, “what? You want me to help you move?

“I do.”

“But why? That’s so…”

“You asked me if you could do anything, and you can,” Roxas wipes his cheek, “you can help me move.”

“Um, okay.”

Roxas stiffens. “What?”

“Nothing,” Axel brings a hand to his temple, “it’s just kinda weird.”

“You killed my cat.”

“... Yeah, alright. What time should I show up tomorrow?” Axel follows Roxas’s line of sight as he does something on his phone. Roxas is silent for a few seconds.

“Wanna just start now?” Roxas gestures to the inside of his house, pushing back the front door, “I just rolled a joint if you wanna smoke it and start packing. Unless you don’t?”

“Nah, it’s cool, I do.” Axel walks in after Roxas. He spots a colorful mug on the counter and immediately falls suspicious. “So, you live alone?”

“Nope. Have two roommates.”

“Oh.”

Roxas turns around, a sly smile on his face. “Ha, why?” He stops walking. “What, you trying to figure out if I’m dating anyone or something?”

“What? No, I’m just, like, making conversation, I guess.” Axel bites his tongue, desperate to change the subject. “Oh, you know what?”

“Hmm?” Roxas throws Axel a can of Coors Light.

“I’m actually moving soon, too. To Astoria.”

“You’re moving to New York City?”

Axel smiles. “Yeah. Pretty crazy, right? We’re both heading up there at the same time.”

“It is. You know, Axel, I’m gonna ask you something. You have your housing figured out?”

“Well, not exactly --”

“Yeah, I figured,” Roxas cuts him off, “dunno, just had a feeling. Um, so since you killed my cat and all, would you wanna, like, extend the favor and crash with me for a few weeks when you get to Astoria?”

“Really? Why?”

“Like I said, my brother bailed on me. And I hate the idea of living alone.”

Axel scrunches up his eyebrows. “I mean… Sure, I guess. You do know I’m gay though, right? That’s kinda my scene.”

Roxas bursts into laughter. “Oh, yeah, of course I do. You’re The Kid. Everyone knows you.”

“You know my stage name? That’s surprising,” Axel shakes his head.

“Why?”

“Whaddya mean _why,_ Roxas? ‘Cause you’re straight.”

Mid-puff, Roxas drops the joint and jumps to his feet, grabbing Axel by the shirt collar, “listen, motherfucker, and listen well. I am not straight. This?” he points to the same mug Axel saw earlier, “is my fucking cup. It’s a rainbow flag. Because I’m gay. How did you not know I was gay?”

“I just -- I never see you at any shows or anything, and I know most of the people from my gigs, so I just thought. I dunno, man. Let go of my shirt, Rox.”

Roxas releases the shirt. “Sorry. I just get so pissed when people say that to me. I’m not fuckin’ straight. I like what I like and wear what I want. You wear fucking, I don’t know, assless chaps and shit. I don’t.”

Axel pauses. “I have never once worn assless chaps.”

“You know what I mean,” Roxas playfully shoulders Axel, his temper cooling. “It’s okay about Mary. Really. It’s sad that she’s gone, but it was an accident, you know? And I loved her so much. She was a great cat. She didn’t need that long on earth.”

“Wow. What a surprisingly beautiful sentiment.”

“Are you flirting with me?” Roxas passes Axel the joint and locks eyes with him, gaze steady.

“No, I’m not,” Axel’s finger lingers on Roxas’s as he takes the lighter, “and don’t go getting all cocky on me now, Roxas. I hate assholes, and if we’re gonna live together, let’s at least try to make it bearable.”

“No promises. Just don’t kill any other house pets, yeah?”

Axel nods and reclines into the couch, dumbfounded by the strangeness of the afternoon. He gazes up, watching the white smoke rise and dance in the yellows and oranges of the light pouring in front outside. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Axel fixates on the fiery glow of the joint as he takes a long drag, Roxas’s eyes glued to his smooth lips, “I won’t.”

* * *


End file.
